[True Work Tales] The Case of the ID and the Eyebrow

I am a librarian. A librarian at a private medical affiliated college in the Metropolitan NY area. My students are awesome. But sneaky. This is a true story.

As of March, I am officially in charge of the ID making machine for my (very small) college. At some point (probably during the massive overtime of accreditation), the ID Machine and I – not unlike King Arthur and England – became one. This explains my strange binary dreamscapes and why the ID printer sometimes hums the Allman Brothers. Taking pictures of the students at my college has allowed me to meet lots of new people – which I love – and to learn their names (which is good, because no one can escape having to sign in at the library desk for usage statistics). And to hone my guerilla tactics to get them to come back and utilize the burgeoning powerhouse that is my library. This last has been very successful.

You… well, maybe it’s just me… but I cannot believe the amount of passion, emotion and angst that is involved with the rather pixilated photographs that are printed on the ID cards. I’ve been begged, bribed and generally amused by students who seem to be expecting a Glamour shot from our Watchport V2 camera. That is seriously not going to happen. I’m not a bad photographer when the camera is stationary, focused and instantaneous. But under fluorescents and with the graphic backdrop of the Cardiovascular System, miracles are highly unlikely. Although very welcome, of course. It probably doesn’t aid the photographee’s cause that I am not picky about pictures. The gem for my ID was taken in the sweaty lost hours of March whereby I suspended the camera to about eye level and snapped a shot. I was desperately in need of either a shower or a beer – probably both. I don’t think my well meaning: “Oh! That’s not that bad,” really engenders confidence in my finished products.

The other issue is the printing capabilities of the card printer – which has been likened in physique to a Roomba by the observant. It’s kind of awesome altogether and consistently churns out a finished product with a doggedness the USPS could envy. But it also has a tendency to recolor faces. In yellows and oranges – particular shades that are not much represented in nature. Except by the manufacturers of highway paraphernalia. This has also caused no end of complaints featuring a host of adjectives I have never heard before in my life.

And this is where my true story begins.

Mr. X*, a student at my college, lined up for his photo ID with the rest of his class (a cohort of about ten students who are graduating in August). From the first, he was displeased with his picture. We had some words over his using the adjective “Chinky,” in the library – which I have some control over – which actually fostered some interesting discussion about stereotypes, racist adjectives and the general ethnic population segregation of JC. His dislike of the ID never waivered however.

In early April, Mr. X came to the library to report that he had lost his ID. “It just blew out the window,” he explained, while I wondered how likely it was that it was actually thrown out the window. I was happy to replace it… with the same picture that was already in the database. Cue Mr. X’s sigh.

While we were waiting for it to print (which takes about 6 seconds), the true story of his ID’s demise leaked out. Either I am getting really good at interrogation techniques (which is possible) or his conscience was entirely too guilty to maintain silence indefinitely. Here is the sad – but very true – tale that was recounted to me: “Well… I did have it clipped to,” Mr. X points to his left eyebrow, “here with the window down.” I inquired as to why it was attached to his eyebrow. Through a complicated series of motions, it became clear that this was not the first time it had ended up there. “So I was on the phone with my friend and it just… flew out the window.” I mentioned that perhaps his eyebrow was not sufficient enough of a perch for the metal clip of the ID card, to which he responded, “Yeah. I’ll know better next time.”

My goodness, I love this job.

*names changed to protect the guilty

[32 Years] Day #1

So, as of 10:53 AM today, I have been 32 for 24 hours.

Personally, I’m kind of amazed that I – and most especially my body – has been around and functioning for quite this long. With normal respiration at 12 breaths/minute, I have taken 22,0752,000 breaths since my first. Equally, there have been 3,195,648,000 heartbeats between April 20, 1978 and April 20, 2010. 168,192,000 eye blinks. So many other unquantifiable things lost in the wake of time: an uncounted string of showers, the exact liquid count of tears or the audible capture of laughter.

After a couple of discussions that always come up around birthdays, I think I’m fairly certain that I would not want to be in my 20s again. Not that it wasn’t a good time, but there is a lot of ownership, self-knowledge and time-earned confidence in being in my 30s. I may not subscribe to the tangible American dream: a house, kids and husband – but I am unbelievably content. And I think over the last year, I realize that might be the goal of life – if there needs to be one. Whose contest am I subscribing to? Who am I competing against? I don’t really know anymore, although I’m pretty sure I thought I did a couple of years ago.

But such maudlin sentiment!

To celebrate my 32^nd birthday, I went to a concert. This is all in keeping with the following Chinese New Year’s Resolution:

(1) Go to more concerts; even if I have to go by myself (and I know I will), I WILL go to at least 1/month. I will buy concert t-shirts for local bands and get more random lyrics stuck in my head.

Back in February, I was on a Nurses bender, and researched that they were playing in April with the Tallest Man on Earth. Not just any day in April, either, but my birthday. Score! I bought two tickets – realizing that I had plenty of time to beg, borrow or steal someone to come with – and sort of forgot about it. I also knew that the Morning Benders were in town that week – and snagged tickets to their spur of the moment Saturday show at the Williamsburg Music Hall. After an APB to my maligned associates, I managed to get Brandon and Anna-Maria to sacrifice their evenings to my madness.

So last night, kitted out in my NEW zombie threadless shirt from Anna-Maria (and painting my less allergenated eyes in gunmetal gray with veins of zombie green!), Brandon and I met up outside the Highline for the Tallest Man on Earth and the Nurses. And dude! Kristian Matsson – the Tallest Man on Earth himself – was standing outside the venue only thinly surrounded by unwashed Hipster Types (more on this later). And my goodness, is he a handsome man! I wanted to go up to him and tell him he was the sort of songwriter that guitars were made for, that his lyrics were visceral and beautiful and meaningful. But I just can’t bring myself to accost people. Brandon almost got me to turn back – but instead we went into the venue with me casting furtive and probably creepy glances back at him.

Upon entering the venue, Brandon and I suddenly became an endangered species: probably the only two people who had showered that morning. In fact, we were fairly certain that Williamsburg had pretty much cleared out for the night and were all in the Highline Ballroom. Things I noticed: that I was probably the shortest person in the venue. Seriously. I was the only person there under 5’9” – and that by a goodly amount (I’m only 5’3”). Although I was able to blend in better due to my dark hair, as pretty much every girl in the joint had long, black hair. Also, the WBurg Hipster Type seems to glorify the barest ideals of a thing. So they appreciate a good Cash cover – but would they know who Mother Maybelle Carter was?

The Nurses were pretty good. I bought a shirt from the drummer – who I didn’t recognize at the merchandising table. I also bought a shirt for the Tallest Man on Earth – thus satisfying the second part of the triune ChiNeYeRe #1. Awesomeness.

As good as the Nurses were, the Tallest Man on Earth rocked the place. His pickings were so clean and resonant – and his voice was pitch perfect. Pitch perfect. And thankfully, owning to my shortness in a sea of really tall people, I listen to him for his lyrics. So I could close my eyes and drink in every painful syllable. I don’t have his new Dead Oceans’ album The Wild Hunt (2010) – so I was pleasantly surprised with several new songs off the album – including a borrow of Sade’s By Your Side which kind of drop kicked my heart (in a good way). In particular from Love is All:

Well I walk upon the river like it's easier than land

Evil's in my pocket and your strength is in my hand

Your strength is in my hand

And I'll throw you in the current that I stand upon so still

Love is all, from what I've heard, but my heart's learned to kill

Oh, mine has learned to kill

[New Music] Too Much to Name, Part 2

Back for Part Two, because I almost forgot about the Spoon Off!

I have been doing a lot of crazy... oh, alright... normal things lately. Drunken martial arts (this is a bad idea!), fondling strange bear nipples, dancing about amai ebi in Brooklyn Heights, Pac-Mania, donating blood to my students... and most especially... participating in the first annual SPOON OFF.

What is the Spoon Off, you ask?

To illustrate:






Once upon a time, there were two girls who live in Brooklyn (in fact, they still live there). One of them is sometimes known as Queenmob and the other as at5115. They were having a glum week because they both had crushes on guys who were resistant to their manifest charms (and they were otherwise busy with librarying and illustrating). Since they were both awesome (and had a friend named Mary who was gassing up the van to go cap some boy asses in the name of friendship) but very nerdy, they decided they needed some cheering up. Queenmob, who is obsessed with beating someone to death with a spoon (don't ask!) suggested spooning... and at5115 readily agreed (because she'll do anything once).

And, oh yeah, we were arguing over ownership of Transmetropolitan.

The rest will live in infamy. Or at the very least in a foto comic (which belongs solely to Queenmob --> www.jung-comics.com/:

But now for more music. Because my life is crazy, but the soundtrack is awesome.

Voxtrot (who I love, love, love):



Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes:



Someone Still Loves You, Boris Yeltsin (it burns because its wood and now you'll never call me darling):



The Nurses (who were very well displayed on Daytrotter this week, here):



Foreign Born:



Miniature Tigers:



Surfer Blood:

Randomness in closing:

My new bangs:


Ghosts 'N Goblins love (picture by Sarah):


Weird Bear Nipple Fondling:

[New Music] Too Much to Name, Part 1

Damnit Anna, don't you give me away ...
You know very well you say you got a soul to sell
but if you want to meet the devil you've got to go to hell...

Now that I've distracted you with the Morning Benders, who were going to be my birthday concert until I realized the Nurses and the Tallest Man on Earth were actually in town on my birthday (April 20) - perhaps you haven't noticed that I've been lapsing back to atrocious corresponding in this digital medium? Not distracted? Well...



Yes, I posted this on Facebook 'ere long ago... but god I love this video. In fact, I am totally in love with the Tallest Man on Earth (aka Kristian Matsson) and grateful to one of the slowest texters in the world for introducing me to him. And since I would otherwise write about either super creepy things -- the email from my Ex asking me to show up scantily clad to pick up very stray mail (?!), running into my Moroccan stalker at 2am at 14th Street after hours of (surpisingly sober) Pac-Man -- or some super sweet things that I don't want to pluck out of my brain just yet (flutter), I'm going to catch up on my music.

There's a lot of catching to do... if I can remember all the delicious music goodness I've been gathering around me.

To wit (which it becoming my new favorite way to begin): Starfucker!



Starfucker is from Belgium and they currently live in my head. They have supplanted Ra Ra Riot (who broke my heart at BAM a couple of weeks ago with poor concert showing - how I once loved thee, Wesley Miles) much to my surprise and delight. Which reminded me of how absolutely awesome the Antlers were (and with a concept album, no less):



And then there's Brooklyn's A Million Years. I had a first (and what should have been the only) date at a concert - but at least I found a new, awesome band. Incandescent (their EP) is available for free download at their Myspace. I particularly love "Incandescent" itself - because of the line: a mathematic mind loses its cool. But this band rocked - and I don't mean that lightly. The best thing ever is when my heart vibrates against my ribcage because of a thick and heavy wall of bass - and damme, but A Million Years just about tore out my chest. And they're playing on March 4! I'm seriously there.

Next... the Rosebuds. In particular the song Unwind, which I am addicted to.



If you'd ever unwind,
and relax then maybe
we could have a good time
this would help

Fanfarlo! A British band that makes me smile a lot. And again with the Swedish lead vox.



Oh no oh my:



the bus driver laughs and he shakes his head
says, "You're okay, I drive this route everyday"
you're uneasy and you say you're scared
and if I die at least you'll die too

Coconut Records (seriously, these Schwartzmans are kind of amazing, even if they are Wes Anderson in music):



The Rural Alberta Advantage (tasty Canadian-ness, as always):



And since I could do this indefinately, Broken Bells! I mean seriously Danger Mouse (of Gnarls Barkley) and the Shins' James Mercer? How the hell can that not be all kinds of awesome. In fact, I think it might be absolute magic. The real kind that doesn't stalk you at 14th street/Union Square.

Good Crushes... and Bad (I didn't intend this to be about crushes at all)

I want to start this blog entry with something incredibly mundane. I finished reading the second volume of Scott Pilgrim Cary loaned me on the train this morning. About the same time I realized I hadn’t brushed my hair this morning. I would like to say these two things are mutually exclusive, despite being hallmarks of my semi-slacker lifestyle. I would also like to say that I don't very often forget to brush my hair. But that would be a slight untruth.

The last four weeks have been crazy. A good, rollicking, warm crunchy crushes, Ra Ra Rioty goodness sort of crazy. Mixed with my obsession of the last two days: KiD CuDi. I think I might be too old for crushes, as abstract as mine seem to be. But I have a serious crush on the way someone's (who will remain nameless in perpetuity) eyes pleat in the corner when they smile. This seems like flimsy grounds for a crush, I think, particularly as I barely know the individual in question. But I think I am going to write a story about it. I've been mulling over this idea about a train in France - two people travelling in the 1950s (or early 1960s), too poor for individual train compartments so they share some padded benches and ... other things (I can't help the fact that all my stories end up the same way, eventually). I've just about got the quality of the light in my minds eye, so I will probably work on it this week.

Now that I have that out of the way, here is my crazy (but absolutely, completely true) story of last week (it happened on Thursday PM) from the APB I threw out to Cary/Karen and Queenmob:

I was walking back from the bank and listening to my iPod. I turned to walk down my street and could see the shadow of someone walking behind me. Peripheral glance - it's a guy - but I'm close to home, so I disregarded it. Under the streetlights, the shadow shortens - he's catching up. And then he's almost alongside me, saying, "Hello!" (This is not uncommon in my neighborhood - soon to be ex-neighborhood - where people are so friendly they invite themselves into your house). I turn and offer him a brief hello, thinking that is it.

But no!

He starts talking to me - I have my headphones on, so out of kindness (self preservation?) I remove them to hear what he is saying to me (probably hoping it's not "I am going to kill you"). But lo! I actually recognize this guy. Why? ...

We go back in time about two weeks. I was catching the N train and in sort of a hurry - as always. I walk past this guy on the street and dismiss him as your average Bensonhurst Italian guy in his late twenties or thereabouts. He turns to look at me, looks away and then almost comically snaps his head back to look at me again. He does not stop looking at me. I disappear into the Station, thinking never to see him again. He gets on my train car. And proceeds to stare at me so blatantly (it wasn't creepy so much as I could actually feel it) that even the other women on the train kept looking back and forth between he and I. He gets off a couple of stops later - me thinking I must have ripped my nylons or something - and I never saw him again.

Until the moment he is walking down my street (essentially the same place I originally saw him).

So he tells me that he's recently moved to Bensonhurst from Morocco! (Bolivian Drug Czars, Russian Assassins, Emrati Financiers, Taiwanese Watermen - WTF!) And he has wanted to talk to me since the first time he saw me, but since I always walk so fast and listen to my iPod, he didn't feel like he could bother me. Because I was raised by wolves and have mostly guy friends, my first thought was: "This guy has some real balls to be doing this. I can totally respect this." But at the same time, this is kindof scary.

I'm standing on my front porch steps! He knows where I live. He has no compunction against staring at me unblinkingly or walking up behind me at 10pm on my street. I have a good sense of humor, but suddenly a line from Gavin DeBecker's Gift of Fear comes to me: men at their core are scared that a woman will laugh at him, but women are scared that a man will kill her. As I know KaiBot3000 would sell me down the river for a handful of tuna treats, I was caught between a rock and a hard place.

So I took his phone number to make him go away. Something that has progressively weighed on my mind since that moment. I am essentially a very honest person (I can't even cross the street until I get a walk signal, for goodness sake!) - so I didn't even think to tell him I was married or living with a boyfriend or something!

I called my Mom (her quote: "He's going to kill you!") and my Sister ("You could have at least gone out for coffee with him"). But my Rational Mind (aka Cary and Karen) thought it was more than a little scary. I mean, Hollywood would lead most to think this was high romantics: a man (he wasn't a bad looking guy, actually) seeing a woman on a train and wanting to meet her. And since these sorts of things NEVER happen to me, I'm not sure if I handled it right.

I suppose only time will tell. And hopefully moving out by Spring.

Daring Glove Interventions!

I have these gloves that are the textile equivalent of juvenile delinquents.

They might also be running a fledgling anarchist ring out of my bedroom.

They enjoy attention (alternating striping between lime and pea green. C'mon!), drink too much Blue Moon (or at least aid in the attempts at such) and most importantly attempt to run away from my tough love at every junction.

First, they pulled a fast one on Lena who under the false belief of my abusive ownership, took them in. But Fingers and Thumbs O'Hooligan soon realized that the grass was not always greener on the otherside (and secretly missed KaiBot3000, alias 'Cat,' their main co-conspirator and typist). They asked to return home and I agreed. I should have set some ground rules. I think Lena taught them how to pick locks.

But teenage angst was soon to set in. Fingers O'Hooligan attempted his next great escape at the supermarket, somewhere between the spices and bread flour. Unfortunately, the O'Hooligans were of two minds - Thumbs not entirely sure he wanted to run away again. It was this NARC half of the O'Hooligan ring that led me to their delinquent otherhalf, sheepish and wilting under the yellow-green fluorescents. The two O'Hooligans have not been on the best of terms since this falling out, which like any textbook von Clausewitz, I have used to my advantage.

We had a serious discussion then.

But it didn't quite seem to sink in. Not just yet. As Fingers O'Hooligan made one last attempt for freedom - fluttering and pilled wool on the cold, litter strewn ground outside of TD Bank. I stood there - arched brow and amused - just waiting. This was the do-or-die moment, where Fingers had to agree to my indulgent despotism or forever circle the debris of Bensonhurst. An anarchist, yes. But a cold, hungry, homeless anarchist. With no access to Blue Moon (outside of the fuzzing aftereffects of tossed bottles), attention or research materials for pamphlet making.

So Fingers O'Hooligan took my hand and we went back home. Where, after all, Thumbs was waiting with the silky green number I picked up in Naples: Scarflette O'Hara. KaiBot3000 collating their latest work, Long live the revolutionary proletariat and the common glovesmith.

[ChiNeYeRe] Update #1

So, in keeping with my drive to accomplish my Chinese New Year's Resolutions - regardless of the fact that sometimes I feel like I'm stuck in Karo syrup, forcing one gigantic step forward after two or three or twenty tiny steps backwards - I called my brother.

As for the necessary caveat: I am the worst correspondent in the world. Ok, I'll admit that's hyperbole. I know at least two other people who are worse than I am. And one of them is my brother ;)

It's not like I avoid responding. I read everything everyone sends me: emails, texts, cards, letters, books, etc... And then I either dash off something I don't over think (and should rue, but I rarely regret anything I do because it's a waste of time) or mull on it. A lot of the things that should be more important fall into the mulling category.

And then it's two months later and fuck! I haven't responded.

The other caveat is that I love my brother to death. But I never actually said it outloud - I'm not a vocal lover (that reads really bad, but I know what I mean) but I love really hard by action (this reads even worse!) - until September 2008. It took me 29 years to acknowledge that I loved my brother verbally. And it felt weird to say it. Not because I didn't feel it or mean it, but because the words "I love you," sometimes are so completely ineffectual in execution. As I only have poets and practical experience in what I think is love, what I feel for my brother (and sister-in-law and sister and brother-in-law and Mom) is exponentially more potent and well, meaningful.

I have a fear (that I've discussed with MrFrank who mocks me) that I've never really loved anyone in my life outside of my family (this is probably untrue, but I don't know!). That I've just been skipping through limerence after limerence like a pool of tricky sensation.

But anyway,

On Sunday, it was Madelyn's birthday. Madelyn is my badass neice. A punk rock princess in the making who is going to break every heart she comes across with keen intellect and beauty. I owe that kid a million birthday presents. She's my first niece and I met her and held her at three months. I'll never in my life forget the way the light in my brother's living room was in South Carolina or the sound of the wind she broke in the Chinese restaurant ;) It's a sort of magic that I don't completely understand but like (outside of the breaking wind bit, which was just hilarious).

I ended up talking to my brother for just under an hour. We talked about my break-in and guitars and work and kids. It was kind of awesome, even though I hate that sticky crackle sensation of having a phone pressed up against my face. And it was something I want to do again.

Part of the being audacious in the year of the Tiger, I think, is being the first person to do things when neither party knows what to do. I'm not promising the right thing - goodness knows I have no idea what I'm doing most of the time ('stabbing at the wind' as George Dakkas used to say) and thankfully am good at researching - but it will be something.